" (Being used to
announcing
his decisions, at the top of his voice, so as to get to know them better.
Samuel Beckett
That must be it.
(Such notions may be entertained, without any process of thought.
) I myself am exceptionally given to the tear.
I should have preferred this kept dark: in their position I should have omitted this detail.
The truth being I have no vent at my disposal, neither the aforesaid nor those less noble.
(How can one enjoy good health under such conditions?
) And what is one to believe?
That is not the point, to believe this or that: the point is to guess right, nothing more.
They say: "If it's not white it's very likely black.
" It must be admitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades all equally worthy of a chance.
The time they waste repeating the same thing, when they must know pertinently it is not the right one!
(Recriminations easily rebutted, if they chose to take the trouble - and had the leisure - to reflect on their inanity.
) But how can you think and speak at the same time?
How can you think about what you have said, may say, are saying - and at the same time go on with the last-mentioned?
You think about any old thing, more or less, in a daze of baseless unanswerable self-reproach.
That's why they always repeat the same thing, the same old litany, the one they know by heart: to try and think of something different, of how to say something different from the same old thing
(always the same wrong thing said always wrong). They can find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them from finding. They'd do better to think of what they're saying, in order at least to vary its presentation: that's what matters. But how can you think and speak at the same time (without a special gift)? Your thoughts wander, your words too - far apart. (No, that's an exaggeration: apart. ) Between them would be the place to be: where you suffer, rejoice (at being bereft of speech, bereft of thought), and feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing. That would be a blessed place to be: where you are. It's a lucky thing they are there (meaning anywhere) to bear the responsibility of this state of affairs: with respect to which if one does not know a great deal one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one's conscience. (To have it on one's stomach is enough. ) Yes, I'm a lucky man to have them, these voluble shades. I'll be sorry when they go (for I won't have them always, not at this rate - they'll make me believe I've piped up before they're done with me). The master in any case: we don't intend (listen to them hedging), we don't intend (unless absolutely driven to it) to make the mistake of inquiring into him. He'd turn out to be a mere high official, we'd end up by needing God. (We have lost all sense of decency admittedly, but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to. ) Let us keep to the family circle, it's more intimate. We all know one another now, no surprises to be feared. The will has been opened: nothing for anybody. This eye. Curious how this eye invites inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance. To do what? It's not clear. To stop weeping, have a quick look round? Goggle an instant and close forever? It's it you see and it alone. It's from it you set out to look for a face, to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having - nothing but a kind of ashen smear. Perhaps it's long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy with ancient tears. Or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil. Or fingers opening and closing to try and shut out the world. Or all together: fingers, hair and rags, mingled inextricably. Suppositions all equally vain: it's enough to enounce them to regret having spoken (familiar torment). (A different past? It's often to be wished - different from yours, when you find out what it was). He is hairless and naked and his hands (laid flat on his knees once and for all) are in no danger of ever getting into mischief. And the face? Balls, all balls. I don't believe in the eye either. There's nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with. (Merciful coincidence, when you think what it would be: a world without spectator, and vice versa. Brrr! ) No spectator then. And better still no spectacle - good riddance! If this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say. I wonder what the chat is about at the moment? Worm presumably (Mahood being abandoned). And I await my
turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair (all things considered) of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that it offers the least interest. (Hey, something wrong there! "Not that it is particularly interesting"? I'll accept that. ) But it's my turn. I too have the right to be shown impossible. This will never end, there's no sense in fooling oneself. Yes it will, they'll come round to it. After me it will be the end. They'll give up, saying: "It's all a bubble, we've been told a lot of lies, he's been told a lot of lies. " (Who he? The master. ) By whom? No one knows. The everlasting third party: he's the one to blame, for this state of affairs. The master's not to blame, neither are they, neither am I (least of all I). We were foolish to accuse one another (the master me, them, himself; they me, the master, themselves: I them, the master, myself). We are all innocent, enough. Innocent of what? No one knows. Of wanting to know, wanting to be able? Of all this noise about nothing? Of this long sin against the silence that enfolds us? We won't ask any more, what it covers, this innocence we have fallen to. It covers everything: all faults, all questions. It puts an end to questions. Then it will be over. Thanks to me all will be over. And they'll depart, one by one. Or they'll drop (they'll let themselves drop) where they stand, and never move again, thanks to me (who could understand nothing, of all they deemed it their duty to tell me to do). And upon us all the silence will fall again, and settle, like dust of sand, on the arena, after the massacres. (Bewitching prospect if ever there was one. ) They are beginning to come round to my opinion. (After all it's possible I have one. ) They make me say "if only this, if only that" - but the idea is theirs. (No, the idea is not theirs either. ) As far as I personally am concerned there is every likelihood of my being incapable of ever desiring or deploring anything whatsoever. For it would seem difficult for someone (if I may so describe myself) to aspire towards a situation of which (notwithstanding the enthusiastic descriptions lavished on him) he has not the remotest idea. Or to desire with a straight face the cessation of that other (equally unintelligible) assigned to him in the beginning and never modified. This silence they are always talking about? From which supposedly he came, to which he will return when his act is over? He doesn't know what it is. Nor what he is meant to do, in order to deserve it. That's the bright boy of the class speaking now. He's the one always called to the rescue when things go badly. He talks all the time of merit and situations (he has saved more than one). Of suffering too: he knows how to stimulate the flagging spirit, stop the rot, with the simple use of this mighty word alone. Even if he has to add, a moment later: "But what suffering? " - since he has always suffered. Which rather damps the rejoicings. But he soon makes up for it, he puts all to rights again, invoking the celebrated notions of quantity, habit-formation, wear and tear, and others too numerous for him
to mention: and which he is thus in a position, in the next belch, to declare inapplicable to the case before him (for there is no end to his wits). But (see above) have they not already bent over me till black and blue in the face? Nay, have they ever done anything else during the past? (No, no dates for pity's sake. ) And another question: What am I doing in Mahood's story, and in Worm's? Or rather what are they doing in mine? There are some irons in the fire to be going on with: let them melt. Oh I know, I know (attention please, this may mean something), I know, there's nothing new there. It's all part of the same old irresistible baloney, namely: "But my dear man, come, be reasonable. Look, this is you, look at this photograph. And here's your file: no convictions, I assure you. Come now, make an effort! At your age, to have no identity! It's a scandal, I assure you. Look at this photograph. What, you see nothing? True for you? No matter. Here, look at this death's-head: you'll see, you'll be all right, it won't last long. Here, look, here's the record: insults to policemen, indecent exposure, sins against the holy ghost, contempt of court, impertinence to superiors, impudence to inferiors, deviations from reason. Without battery - look, no battery! It's nothing. You'll be all right, you'll see. " "I beg your pardon? Does he work? Good God no, out of the question! Look, here's the medical report: spasmodic tabes, painless ulcers (I repeat, painless, all is painless), multiple softenings, manifold hardenings, insensitive to blows, sight failing, chronic gripes, light diet, shit well tolerated, hearing failing, heart irregular, sweet-tempered, smell failing, heavy sleeper, no erections. Would you like some more? Commission in the territorials. Inoperable, untransportable. Look, here's the face (no, no, the other end). I assure you, it's a bargain. I beg your pardon? Does he drink? Good God yes, passionately! I beg your pardon? Father and mother? Both dead, at seven months interval: he at the conception, she at the nativity. I assure you, you won't do better, at your age. No human shape? The pity of it! Look, here's the photograph. " ("You'll see, you'll be all right. What does it amount to after all? A painful moment, on the surface, then peace, underneath. It's the only way, believe me, the only way out. ") "I beg your pardon? Have I nothing else? Why certainly, certainly - just a second. Curious you should mention it. I was wondering myself (just a second) if you were not rather (just a second, here we are, this one here)? . . but I wanted to be sure. (What, you don't understand? Neither do I. No matter. ) It's no time for levity. " ("Yes, I was right, no doubt about it this time - it's you all over. ") "Look, here's the photograph, take a look at that: dying on his feet. You'd better hurry, it's a bargain, I assure you. " And so on, till I'm tempted. No: all lies. (They know it well, I never understood. ) I haven't stirred. All I've said (said I've done, said I've been), it's they who said it. I've said nothing, I
haven't stirred. They don't understand: I can't stir. They think I don't want to, that their conditions don't suit me - that they'll hit on others, in the end, to my liking, then I'll stir, I'll be in the bag. That's how I see it. (I see nothing. ) They don't understand: I can't go to them, they'll have to come and get me, if they want me. Mahood won't get me out, nor Worm either. They set great store on Worm, to coax me out - he was something new, different from all the others (meant to be, perhaps he was - to me they're all the same). They don't understand: I can't stir. I'm all right here, I'd be all right here, if they'd leave me. Let them come and get me, if they want me. They'll find nothing. Then they can depart, with an easy mind. And if there is only one? Like me? He can depart without fear of remorse (having done all he could - and even more - to achieve the impossible and so lost his life). Or stay with me here (he might do that) and be a like for me: that would be lovely! My first like, that would be epoch-making! To know I had a like, a congenor! He wouldn't have to be like me: he couldn't but be like me, he need only relax. He might believe what he pleased, at the outset: that he was in hell, or that the place was charming. He might even exclaim: "I'll never stir again.
" (Being used to announcing his decisions, at the top of his voice, so as to get to know them better. ) He might even add, to cover all risks: "For the moment. " (It would be his last howler. ) He need only relax, he'd disappear (he'd know nothing either). There we'd be the two of us: unbeknown to ourselves, unbeknown to each other. That's a darling dream I've been having! A broth of a dream! And it's not over. For here comes another, to see what has happened to his pal, and get him out, and back to his right mind, and back to his kin (with a flow of threats and promises, and tales like this of wombs and cribs, diapers bepissed and the first long trousers, love's young dream and life's old lech, blood and tears and skin and bones and the tossing in the grave). And so coax him out, as he me (that's right, pidgin bullskrit). And in the end, having lived his life (no, before, but you've got my meaning). And there we are the three of us (it's cosier). Perpetual dream! You have merely to sleep, not even that. It's like the old jingle: "A dog crawled into the kitchen and stole a crust of bread, then cook up with I've forgotten what and walloped him till he was dead. " Second verse: "Then all the dogs came crawling and dug the dog a tomb and wrote upon the tombstone for dogs and bitches to come. " Third verse, as the first. Fourth, as the second. Fifth, as the third. Give us time, give us time and we'll be a multitude: a thousand, ten thousand - there's no lack of room. Adeste, adeste, all ye living bastards. You'll be all right, you'll see, you'll never be born again. (What am I saying? You'll never have been born. ) And bring your brats: our hell will be heaven to them, after what you've done to them. But come to think of it are we not already a goodly company? What right have I to flatter
myself I'm the first? (First in time I mean of course. ) There we have a few more questions. Please God they don't take the fancy to answer them! What can they be hatching anyhow, at this eleventh hour? Can it be they are resolved at last to seize me by the horns? Looks like it. In that case tableau any minute: "Oyez, oyez! " (I was like them, before being like me? Oh the swine - that's one I won't get over in a hurry. No matter, no matter. ) The charge is sounded. Present arms, corpse! To your guns, spermatozoon! I too, weary of pleading an incomprehensible cause (at six and eight the thousand flowers of rhetoric), let myself drop among the contumacious. (Nice image that! Telescoping space! It must be the Pulitzer Prize. ) They want to bore me to sleep (at long range for fear I might defend myself). They want to catch me alive, so as to be able to kill me. Thus I shall have lived. They think I'm alive - what a business! (Were there but a cadaver it would smack of body-snatching. ) Not in a womb either: the slut has yet to menstruate capable of whelping me. That should singularly narrow the field of research. A sperm dying (of cold) in the sheets, feebly wagging its little tail? Perhaps I'm a drying sperm, in the sheets of an innocent boy (even that takes time). No stone must be left unturned. One mustn't be afraid of making a howler: how can one know it is one before it's made? And one it most certainly is, now that it's irrevocable: for the good reason (here's another, here comes another, unless it escapes them in time - what a hope, the bright boy is here! ) - for the excellent reason that counts as living too, counts as murder (it's notorious). Ah you can't deny it, some people are lucky: born of a wet dream and dead before morning. I must say I'm tempted. (No, the testis has yet to descend that would want any truck with me (it's mutual). Another gleam down the drain. ) And now one last look at Mahood, at Worm. We'll never have another chance. Ah will they never learn sense? There's nothing to be got, there was never anything to be got from those stories. I have mine, somewhere. Let them tell it to me: they'll see there's nothing to be got from it either, nothing to be got from me. It will be the end, of this hell of stories. You'd think I was cursing them (always the same old trick, you'd be sorry for them). Perhaps I'll curse them yet: they'll know what it is to be a subject of conversation. I'll impute words to them you wouldn't throw to a dog. An ear, a mouth and in the middle a few rags of mind. I'll get my own back. (A few flitters of mind, they'll see what it's like. ) I'll clap an eye at random in the thick of the mess, on the off chance something might stray in front of it. Then I'll let down my trousers and shit stories on them: stories, photographs, records, sites, lights, gods and fellow-creatures, the daily round and common task. Observing all the while: "Be born, dear friends, be born. Enter my arse. You'll just love my colic pains. It won't take long, I've the bloody flux. " They'll see what it's like, that it's not so
easy as it looks: that you must have a taste for it, that you must be born alive, that it's not something you can acquire. That will teach them perhaps, to keep their nose out of my business. Yes, if I could. But I can't (whatever it is). I can't any more. There was perhaps a time I could - in the days when I was bursting my guts (as per instructions) to bring back to the fold the dear lost lamb. (I'd been told he was dear: that he was dear to me, that I was dear to him, that we were dear to each other. ) All my life I've pelted him with twaddle, the dear departed - wondering what he could possibly be like, wondering where we could possibly have met. "All my life? " Well, almost. (Damn the "almost": all my life, until I joined him. ) And now it's I am dear to them, now it's they are dear to me (glad to hear it). They'll join us, one by one. (What a pity they are numberless! So are we. ) Dear charnelhouse of renegades! (This evening decidedly everything is dear. No matter: the ancients hear nothing. ) And my old quarry, there beside me? For him it's all over. (Beside me? How are you? Underneath me! We're piled up in heaps. ) (No, that won't work either - no matter, it's a detail. ) For him it's all over (him the second-last). And for me too (me the last) it will soon be all over. I'll hear nothing more. I've nothing to do, simply wait. It's a slow business. He'll come and lie on top of me, lie beside me, my dear tormentor: his turn to suffer what he made me suffer, mine to be at peace. How all comes right in the end to be sure! It's thanks to patience, thanks to time. It's thanks to the earth that revolves that the earth revolves no more, that time ends its meal and pain comes to an end. You have only to wait, without doing anything (it's no good doing anything) and without understanding (there's no help in understanding), and all comes right. Nothing comes right, nothing, nothing. This will never end, this voice will never stop. I'm alone here, the first and the last. I never made anyone suffer, I never stopped anyone's sufferings: no one will ever stop mine. They'll never depart, I'll never stir. I'll never know peace. Neither will they - but with this difference, that they don't want it. They say they don't want it, they say I don't want it. Don't want peace? After all perhaps they're right. How could I want it? What is it? They say I suffer (perhaps they're right) and that I'd feel better if I did this, said that: if my body stirred, if my head understood, if they went silent and departed. Perhaps they're right. How would I know about these things? How would I understand what they're talking about? I'll never stir, never speak. They'll never go silent, never depart. They'll never catch me, never stop trying. That's that. I'm listening. Well I prefer that, I must say I prefer that. That what? Oh you know! Who you? Oh I suppose the audience. Well well, so there's an audience - it's a public show! You buy your seat and you wait. (Perhaps it's free, a free show. ) You take your seat and you wait for it to begin. (Or perhaps it's compulsory, a compulsory show: you wait
for the compulsory show to begin. ) It takes time. You hear a voice, perhaps it's a recitation. That's the show, someone reciting: selected passages, old favourites - a poetry matinee. Or someone improvising (you can hardly hear him). That's the show. You can't leave, you're afraid to leave, it might be worse elsewhere. You make the best of it, you try and be reasonable: you came too early (here we'd need Latin), it's only beginning. It hasn't begun! He's only preluding, clearing his throat, alone in his dressing-room. He'll appear any moment, he'll begin any moment. Or it's the stage-manager, giving his instructions, his last recommendations, before the curtain rises. That's the show: waiting for the show (to the sound of a murmur). You try and be reasonable: perhaps it's not a voice at all. Perhaps it's the air - ascending, descending, flowing, eddying, seeking exit, finding none. And the spectators? Where are they? You didn't notice, in the anguish of waiting, never noticed you were waiting alone. That's the show: waiting alone, in the restless air, for it to begin, for something to begin, for there to be something else but you. For the power to rise, the courage to leave. You try and be reasonable: perhaps you are blind, probably deaf. The show is over, all is over? But where then is the hand, the helping hand? (Or merely charitable? Or the hired hand? ) It's a long time coming, to take yours and draw you away. That's the show (free, gratis and for nothing): waiting alone, blind, deaf. You don't know where, you don't know for what: for a hand to come and draw you away, somewhere else (where perhaps it's worse). And now for the it: I prefer that, I must say I prefer that. (What a memory, real fly- paper! ) I don't know - I don't prefer it any more, that's all I know. So why bother about it, a thing you don't prefer? Just think of that, bothering about that! Perish the thought! One must wait, discover a preference, within one's bosom. Then it will be time enough to institute an inquiry. Moreover (that's right, link, link, you never know), moreover their attitude toward me has not changed. I am deceived, they are deceived. They have tried to deceive me, saying their attitude towards me had changed. But they haven't deceived me: I didn't understand what they were trying to do to me. I say what I'm told to say, that's all there is to it. And yet I wonder I don't know. I don't feel a mouth on me, I don't feel the jostle of words in my mouth. And when you say a poem you like (if you happen to like poetry) - in the underground, or in bed, for yourself - the words are there, somewhere, without the least sound. I don't feel that either. Words falling, you don't know where, you don't know whence? Drops of silence through the silence? I don't feel it. I don't feel a mouth on me, nor a head. Do I feel an ear? Frankly now, do I feel an ear? Well frankly now I don't. So much the worse: I don't feel an ear either. This is awful. Make an effort: I must feel something. Yes, I feel something (they say I feel something).
(always the same wrong thing said always wrong). They can find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them from finding. They'd do better to think of what they're saying, in order at least to vary its presentation: that's what matters. But how can you think and speak at the same time (without a special gift)? Your thoughts wander, your words too - far apart. (No, that's an exaggeration: apart. ) Between them would be the place to be: where you suffer, rejoice (at being bereft of speech, bereft of thought), and feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing. That would be a blessed place to be: where you are. It's a lucky thing they are there (meaning anywhere) to bear the responsibility of this state of affairs: with respect to which if one does not know a great deal one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one's conscience. (To have it on one's stomach is enough. ) Yes, I'm a lucky man to have them, these voluble shades. I'll be sorry when they go (for I won't have them always, not at this rate - they'll make me believe I've piped up before they're done with me). The master in any case: we don't intend (listen to them hedging), we don't intend (unless absolutely driven to it) to make the mistake of inquiring into him. He'd turn out to be a mere high official, we'd end up by needing God. (We have lost all sense of decency admittedly, but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to. ) Let us keep to the family circle, it's more intimate. We all know one another now, no surprises to be feared. The will has been opened: nothing for anybody. This eye. Curious how this eye invites inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance. To do what? It's not clear. To stop weeping, have a quick look round? Goggle an instant and close forever? It's it you see and it alone. It's from it you set out to look for a face, to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having - nothing but a kind of ashen smear. Perhaps it's long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy with ancient tears. Or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil. Or fingers opening and closing to try and shut out the world. Or all together: fingers, hair and rags, mingled inextricably. Suppositions all equally vain: it's enough to enounce them to regret having spoken (familiar torment). (A different past? It's often to be wished - different from yours, when you find out what it was). He is hairless and naked and his hands (laid flat on his knees once and for all) are in no danger of ever getting into mischief. And the face? Balls, all balls. I don't believe in the eye either. There's nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with. (Merciful coincidence, when you think what it would be: a world without spectator, and vice versa. Brrr! ) No spectator then. And better still no spectacle - good riddance! If this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say. I wonder what the chat is about at the moment? Worm presumably (Mahood being abandoned). And I await my
turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair (all things considered) of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that it offers the least interest. (Hey, something wrong there! "Not that it is particularly interesting"? I'll accept that. ) But it's my turn. I too have the right to be shown impossible. This will never end, there's no sense in fooling oneself. Yes it will, they'll come round to it. After me it will be the end. They'll give up, saying: "It's all a bubble, we've been told a lot of lies, he's been told a lot of lies. " (Who he? The master. ) By whom? No one knows. The everlasting third party: he's the one to blame, for this state of affairs. The master's not to blame, neither are they, neither am I (least of all I). We were foolish to accuse one another (the master me, them, himself; they me, the master, themselves: I them, the master, myself). We are all innocent, enough. Innocent of what? No one knows. Of wanting to know, wanting to be able? Of all this noise about nothing? Of this long sin against the silence that enfolds us? We won't ask any more, what it covers, this innocence we have fallen to. It covers everything: all faults, all questions. It puts an end to questions. Then it will be over. Thanks to me all will be over. And they'll depart, one by one. Or they'll drop (they'll let themselves drop) where they stand, and never move again, thanks to me (who could understand nothing, of all they deemed it their duty to tell me to do). And upon us all the silence will fall again, and settle, like dust of sand, on the arena, after the massacres. (Bewitching prospect if ever there was one. ) They are beginning to come round to my opinion. (After all it's possible I have one. ) They make me say "if only this, if only that" - but the idea is theirs. (No, the idea is not theirs either. ) As far as I personally am concerned there is every likelihood of my being incapable of ever desiring or deploring anything whatsoever. For it would seem difficult for someone (if I may so describe myself) to aspire towards a situation of which (notwithstanding the enthusiastic descriptions lavished on him) he has not the remotest idea. Or to desire with a straight face the cessation of that other (equally unintelligible) assigned to him in the beginning and never modified. This silence they are always talking about? From which supposedly he came, to which he will return when his act is over? He doesn't know what it is. Nor what he is meant to do, in order to deserve it. That's the bright boy of the class speaking now. He's the one always called to the rescue when things go badly. He talks all the time of merit and situations (he has saved more than one). Of suffering too: he knows how to stimulate the flagging spirit, stop the rot, with the simple use of this mighty word alone. Even if he has to add, a moment later: "But what suffering? " - since he has always suffered. Which rather damps the rejoicings. But he soon makes up for it, he puts all to rights again, invoking the celebrated notions of quantity, habit-formation, wear and tear, and others too numerous for him
to mention: and which he is thus in a position, in the next belch, to declare inapplicable to the case before him (for there is no end to his wits). But (see above) have they not already bent over me till black and blue in the face? Nay, have they ever done anything else during the past? (No, no dates for pity's sake. ) And another question: What am I doing in Mahood's story, and in Worm's? Or rather what are they doing in mine? There are some irons in the fire to be going on with: let them melt. Oh I know, I know (attention please, this may mean something), I know, there's nothing new there. It's all part of the same old irresistible baloney, namely: "But my dear man, come, be reasonable. Look, this is you, look at this photograph. And here's your file: no convictions, I assure you. Come now, make an effort! At your age, to have no identity! It's a scandal, I assure you. Look at this photograph. What, you see nothing? True for you? No matter. Here, look at this death's-head: you'll see, you'll be all right, it won't last long. Here, look, here's the record: insults to policemen, indecent exposure, sins against the holy ghost, contempt of court, impertinence to superiors, impudence to inferiors, deviations from reason. Without battery - look, no battery! It's nothing. You'll be all right, you'll see. " "I beg your pardon? Does he work? Good God no, out of the question! Look, here's the medical report: spasmodic tabes, painless ulcers (I repeat, painless, all is painless), multiple softenings, manifold hardenings, insensitive to blows, sight failing, chronic gripes, light diet, shit well tolerated, hearing failing, heart irregular, sweet-tempered, smell failing, heavy sleeper, no erections. Would you like some more? Commission in the territorials. Inoperable, untransportable. Look, here's the face (no, no, the other end). I assure you, it's a bargain. I beg your pardon? Does he drink? Good God yes, passionately! I beg your pardon? Father and mother? Both dead, at seven months interval: he at the conception, she at the nativity. I assure you, you won't do better, at your age. No human shape? The pity of it! Look, here's the photograph. " ("You'll see, you'll be all right. What does it amount to after all? A painful moment, on the surface, then peace, underneath. It's the only way, believe me, the only way out. ") "I beg your pardon? Have I nothing else? Why certainly, certainly - just a second. Curious you should mention it. I was wondering myself (just a second) if you were not rather (just a second, here we are, this one here)? . . but I wanted to be sure. (What, you don't understand? Neither do I. No matter. ) It's no time for levity. " ("Yes, I was right, no doubt about it this time - it's you all over. ") "Look, here's the photograph, take a look at that: dying on his feet. You'd better hurry, it's a bargain, I assure you. " And so on, till I'm tempted. No: all lies. (They know it well, I never understood. ) I haven't stirred. All I've said (said I've done, said I've been), it's they who said it. I've said nothing, I
haven't stirred. They don't understand: I can't stir. They think I don't want to, that their conditions don't suit me - that they'll hit on others, in the end, to my liking, then I'll stir, I'll be in the bag. That's how I see it. (I see nothing. ) They don't understand: I can't go to them, they'll have to come and get me, if they want me. Mahood won't get me out, nor Worm either. They set great store on Worm, to coax me out - he was something new, different from all the others (meant to be, perhaps he was - to me they're all the same). They don't understand: I can't stir. I'm all right here, I'd be all right here, if they'd leave me. Let them come and get me, if they want me. They'll find nothing. Then they can depart, with an easy mind. And if there is only one? Like me? He can depart without fear of remorse (having done all he could - and even more - to achieve the impossible and so lost his life). Or stay with me here (he might do that) and be a like for me: that would be lovely! My first like, that would be epoch-making! To know I had a like, a congenor! He wouldn't have to be like me: he couldn't but be like me, he need only relax. He might believe what he pleased, at the outset: that he was in hell, or that the place was charming. He might even exclaim: "I'll never stir again.
" (Being used to announcing his decisions, at the top of his voice, so as to get to know them better. ) He might even add, to cover all risks: "For the moment. " (It would be his last howler. ) He need only relax, he'd disappear (he'd know nothing either). There we'd be the two of us: unbeknown to ourselves, unbeknown to each other. That's a darling dream I've been having! A broth of a dream! And it's not over. For here comes another, to see what has happened to his pal, and get him out, and back to his right mind, and back to his kin (with a flow of threats and promises, and tales like this of wombs and cribs, diapers bepissed and the first long trousers, love's young dream and life's old lech, blood and tears and skin and bones and the tossing in the grave). And so coax him out, as he me (that's right, pidgin bullskrit). And in the end, having lived his life (no, before, but you've got my meaning). And there we are the three of us (it's cosier). Perpetual dream! You have merely to sleep, not even that. It's like the old jingle: "A dog crawled into the kitchen and stole a crust of bread, then cook up with I've forgotten what and walloped him till he was dead. " Second verse: "Then all the dogs came crawling and dug the dog a tomb and wrote upon the tombstone for dogs and bitches to come. " Third verse, as the first. Fourth, as the second. Fifth, as the third. Give us time, give us time and we'll be a multitude: a thousand, ten thousand - there's no lack of room. Adeste, adeste, all ye living bastards. You'll be all right, you'll see, you'll never be born again. (What am I saying? You'll never have been born. ) And bring your brats: our hell will be heaven to them, after what you've done to them. But come to think of it are we not already a goodly company? What right have I to flatter
myself I'm the first? (First in time I mean of course. ) There we have a few more questions. Please God they don't take the fancy to answer them! What can they be hatching anyhow, at this eleventh hour? Can it be they are resolved at last to seize me by the horns? Looks like it. In that case tableau any minute: "Oyez, oyez! " (I was like them, before being like me? Oh the swine - that's one I won't get over in a hurry. No matter, no matter. ) The charge is sounded. Present arms, corpse! To your guns, spermatozoon! I too, weary of pleading an incomprehensible cause (at six and eight the thousand flowers of rhetoric), let myself drop among the contumacious. (Nice image that! Telescoping space! It must be the Pulitzer Prize. ) They want to bore me to sleep (at long range for fear I might defend myself). They want to catch me alive, so as to be able to kill me. Thus I shall have lived. They think I'm alive - what a business! (Were there but a cadaver it would smack of body-snatching. ) Not in a womb either: the slut has yet to menstruate capable of whelping me. That should singularly narrow the field of research. A sperm dying (of cold) in the sheets, feebly wagging its little tail? Perhaps I'm a drying sperm, in the sheets of an innocent boy (even that takes time). No stone must be left unturned. One mustn't be afraid of making a howler: how can one know it is one before it's made? And one it most certainly is, now that it's irrevocable: for the good reason (here's another, here comes another, unless it escapes them in time - what a hope, the bright boy is here! ) - for the excellent reason that counts as living too, counts as murder (it's notorious). Ah you can't deny it, some people are lucky: born of a wet dream and dead before morning. I must say I'm tempted. (No, the testis has yet to descend that would want any truck with me (it's mutual). Another gleam down the drain. ) And now one last look at Mahood, at Worm. We'll never have another chance. Ah will they never learn sense? There's nothing to be got, there was never anything to be got from those stories. I have mine, somewhere. Let them tell it to me: they'll see there's nothing to be got from it either, nothing to be got from me. It will be the end, of this hell of stories. You'd think I was cursing them (always the same old trick, you'd be sorry for them). Perhaps I'll curse them yet: they'll know what it is to be a subject of conversation. I'll impute words to them you wouldn't throw to a dog. An ear, a mouth and in the middle a few rags of mind. I'll get my own back. (A few flitters of mind, they'll see what it's like. ) I'll clap an eye at random in the thick of the mess, on the off chance something might stray in front of it. Then I'll let down my trousers and shit stories on them: stories, photographs, records, sites, lights, gods and fellow-creatures, the daily round and common task. Observing all the while: "Be born, dear friends, be born. Enter my arse. You'll just love my colic pains. It won't take long, I've the bloody flux. " They'll see what it's like, that it's not so
easy as it looks: that you must have a taste for it, that you must be born alive, that it's not something you can acquire. That will teach them perhaps, to keep their nose out of my business. Yes, if I could. But I can't (whatever it is). I can't any more. There was perhaps a time I could - in the days when I was bursting my guts (as per instructions) to bring back to the fold the dear lost lamb. (I'd been told he was dear: that he was dear to me, that I was dear to him, that we were dear to each other. ) All my life I've pelted him with twaddle, the dear departed - wondering what he could possibly be like, wondering where we could possibly have met. "All my life? " Well, almost. (Damn the "almost": all my life, until I joined him. ) And now it's I am dear to them, now it's they are dear to me (glad to hear it). They'll join us, one by one. (What a pity they are numberless! So are we. ) Dear charnelhouse of renegades! (This evening decidedly everything is dear. No matter: the ancients hear nothing. ) And my old quarry, there beside me? For him it's all over. (Beside me? How are you? Underneath me! We're piled up in heaps. ) (No, that won't work either - no matter, it's a detail. ) For him it's all over (him the second-last). And for me too (me the last) it will soon be all over. I'll hear nothing more. I've nothing to do, simply wait. It's a slow business. He'll come and lie on top of me, lie beside me, my dear tormentor: his turn to suffer what he made me suffer, mine to be at peace. How all comes right in the end to be sure! It's thanks to patience, thanks to time. It's thanks to the earth that revolves that the earth revolves no more, that time ends its meal and pain comes to an end. You have only to wait, without doing anything (it's no good doing anything) and without understanding (there's no help in understanding), and all comes right. Nothing comes right, nothing, nothing. This will never end, this voice will never stop. I'm alone here, the first and the last. I never made anyone suffer, I never stopped anyone's sufferings: no one will ever stop mine. They'll never depart, I'll never stir. I'll never know peace. Neither will they - but with this difference, that they don't want it. They say they don't want it, they say I don't want it. Don't want peace? After all perhaps they're right. How could I want it? What is it? They say I suffer (perhaps they're right) and that I'd feel better if I did this, said that: if my body stirred, if my head understood, if they went silent and departed. Perhaps they're right. How would I know about these things? How would I understand what they're talking about? I'll never stir, never speak. They'll never go silent, never depart. They'll never catch me, never stop trying. That's that. I'm listening. Well I prefer that, I must say I prefer that. That what? Oh you know! Who you? Oh I suppose the audience. Well well, so there's an audience - it's a public show! You buy your seat and you wait. (Perhaps it's free, a free show. ) You take your seat and you wait for it to begin. (Or perhaps it's compulsory, a compulsory show: you wait
for the compulsory show to begin. ) It takes time. You hear a voice, perhaps it's a recitation. That's the show, someone reciting: selected passages, old favourites - a poetry matinee. Or someone improvising (you can hardly hear him). That's the show. You can't leave, you're afraid to leave, it might be worse elsewhere. You make the best of it, you try and be reasonable: you came too early (here we'd need Latin), it's only beginning. It hasn't begun! He's only preluding, clearing his throat, alone in his dressing-room. He'll appear any moment, he'll begin any moment. Or it's the stage-manager, giving his instructions, his last recommendations, before the curtain rises. That's the show: waiting for the show (to the sound of a murmur). You try and be reasonable: perhaps it's not a voice at all. Perhaps it's the air - ascending, descending, flowing, eddying, seeking exit, finding none. And the spectators? Where are they? You didn't notice, in the anguish of waiting, never noticed you were waiting alone. That's the show: waiting alone, in the restless air, for it to begin, for something to begin, for there to be something else but you. For the power to rise, the courage to leave. You try and be reasonable: perhaps you are blind, probably deaf. The show is over, all is over? But where then is the hand, the helping hand? (Or merely charitable? Or the hired hand? ) It's a long time coming, to take yours and draw you away. That's the show (free, gratis and for nothing): waiting alone, blind, deaf. You don't know where, you don't know for what: for a hand to come and draw you away, somewhere else (where perhaps it's worse). And now for the it: I prefer that, I must say I prefer that. (What a memory, real fly- paper! ) I don't know - I don't prefer it any more, that's all I know. So why bother about it, a thing you don't prefer? Just think of that, bothering about that! Perish the thought! One must wait, discover a preference, within one's bosom. Then it will be time enough to institute an inquiry. Moreover (that's right, link, link, you never know), moreover their attitude toward me has not changed. I am deceived, they are deceived. They have tried to deceive me, saying their attitude towards me had changed. But they haven't deceived me: I didn't understand what they were trying to do to me. I say what I'm told to say, that's all there is to it. And yet I wonder I don't know. I don't feel a mouth on me, I don't feel the jostle of words in my mouth. And when you say a poem you like (if you happen to like poetry) - in the underground, or in bed, for yourself - the words are there, somewhere, without the least sound. I don't feel that either. Words falling, you don't know where, you don't know whence? Drops of silence through the silence? I don't feel it. I don't feel a mouth on me, nor a head. Do I feel an ear? Frankly now, do I feel an ear? Well frankly now I don't. So much the worse: I don't feel an ear either. This is awful. Make an effort: I must feel something. Yes, I feel something (they say I feel something).
